


In the City Where You Are

by ElementalPea



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Barfight! Kinda?, Bouncer is Jason Momoa if you squint, Elio is angry at Oliver, Enemies to Lovers, Lovers to enemies to lovers, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:01:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22221484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElementalPea/pseuds/ElementalPea
Summary: Of course Elio expected he would run into Oliver, eventually. He is in his city, after all. But he didn’t expect it to be so soon. Not here, not now. He just wanted a place to read, a place to keep to himself but not be alone. What are the odds that Oliver would visit this exact same exhibit in this massive museum in this sprawling city at this very moment? No, Elio’s not prepared for this. Not prepared at all.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 51
Kudos: 129
Collections: CMBYN Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all!
> 
> I'm *technically* late in posting this, but I'm gonna say close enough. I've been sick and exhausted since xmas (a universal epidemic, from what I can tell), so I was not able to finish this by the deadline. I wanted to go ahead and post this first part, though, since I did write it for the Big Bang. I've got a good bit written and should be able to update reasonably regularly. *fingers crossed* I don't yet know how many chapters it'll be (maybe 4-5?), so I guess it'll be a surprise for us all!
> 
> Many thanks to @mae428 and @onlyastoryteller for looking over this for me, and again, many thanks to the glorious organizers of this event: @StarFromPhoenix, @lfg1986, @onlyastoryteller, and @stmonkeys/chalamazed. 
> 
> Happy Big Bang, y'all!

_ Fall, 1990 _

“Elio?”

That voice vibrates through Elio. His head snaps up from the book he’s reading, he reflexively shakes the curls from his face, and his eyes steadily climb the towering height of the person standing in front of him until they finally meet Oliver’s. 

Of course Elio expected he would run into Oliver, eventually. He is in his city, after all. But he didn’t expect it to be so soon. Not here, not now. He just wanted a place to read, a place to keep to himself but not be alone. What are the odds that Oliver would visit this exact same exhibit in this massive museum in this sprawling city at this very moment? No, Elio’s not prepared for this. Not prepared at all.

Oliver looks confused, but he’s smiling. He’s happy to see him. Elio, on the other hand, is a torrent of progressive and conflicting emotions, all of which storm across his face until he remembers himself, presses his lips into a thin line, wills his features into some semblance of impassive.

“Oliver.” 

“I can’t believe...what--”

Elio snaps the book shut, stands abruptly. As he shoves the book into his leather satchel, he says “excuse me, I have to go.” Elio tries to step around Oliver, but Oliver moves to block, grabs Elio’s arm.

“Elio, wait.”

Elio looks at where Oliver’s hand is wrapped around his bicep, then looks up into Oliver’s face. “Let me go, Oliver.” 

Oliver searches Elio’s eyes, finds that barely controlled storm of anger, annoyance...panic? All tempered by defiance. Lets go of Elio’s arm, allows him to shoulder past, turns and watches him stride away without another word. Oliver is left standing in the middle of the swirling crowd, staring at nothing once Elio is out of sight. 

Oliver turns to the Temple of Dendur, then back in the direction of Elio’s exit before he sits on the still-warm granite where Elio was sitting just moments before. Places his head in his hands so that all he can see are Elio’s eyes.

*******

_ Summer, 1983 _

Wrapped up in each other, despite the afternoon heat. Skin slippery from sweat except where it’s tacky from Elio’s release, from where he’d shot all over his chest as Oliver thrusted into him, kissed up his neck, whisper-growled into his ear, “you were made for me.” Elio had thought he was already overwhelmed with sensation from being filled with Oliver’s scent, his sounds, his taste, his cock--his powerful, punishing cock--until that voice vibrated through his body, raising goosebumps like an alarm. The delicious shiver that grew into a full-body shudder as Elio learned just how much more there was to feel--how much more he could feel--so much that it burst out of him, his cries and clenching causing Oliver to power into Elio like a machine, panting like a machine, until he finished with a groan muffled into the curve where Elio’s shoulder sloped up into sinful neck.

Only measured breathing now, and the sound of shutters beating against the villa, until-- 

“Elio.”

“Hmmm?”

“What are you thinking?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

“Liar.”

Elio is indignant. “I am not.”

“The wheels in that head of yours are spinning like mad. I can practically feel a breeze coming out of your ears.”

Elio punches Oliver in the arm, laughs despite himself. “Don’t be stupid.”

Oliver chuckles, too, squeezes Elio tighter, kisses the top of his head. “So tell me. What is it?”

Silence. And then a sigh. “It’s just,” a pause. “You make me feel so much. Like,” the words rushing out now, a stutter, “like I’m-I’m-I’m losing control, like I’m losing my mind.” Props up on his elbow, looks down at Oliver. “This feeling, this passion...this is new. I mean, I feel passionate about music, but I also feel in control. With you, though,” Elio runs his fingers lightly down Oliver’s face, leans forward to kiss him softly, whispers against his lips, “with you, I don’t feel in control at all.” 

Oliver cups Elio’s cheek, and Elio nuzzles into his palm, grabs it, kisses it.

“I didn’t know a person could make me feel this way,” Elio says.

Oliver’s thumb slides across Elio’s bottom lip. He smiles. “Me neither.”

The wrinkles around Elio’s eyes when he smiles. “Yeah?”

Oliver’s smile grows with Elio’s. “Yeah.” 

Then no more talking. Just kissing that starts frantic but then slows and drifts and eases into sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is his first time at this particular club, and as he approaches the bar to order a drink, he wonders if this is a regular place for Elio. In light of their meeting and subsequent non-encounters, Oliver has made up his mind not to approach, stays out of his line of sight. He’s considering leaving when he sees their conversation has morphed into yelling. He can barely hear Elio’s voice over the music, but he can tell that his ranting is a melding of both English and Italian, and he can’t help a bit of a smirk at this feisty boy. Elio knocks the guy’s drink over, stands, tries to walk away, but the man grabs his wrist, pulls him back in. With both bartenders tied up with customers further down the bar, and sensing things are more ominous than he’d originally thought, Oliver moves along the bar, stands behind Elio, levels his gaze at the man holding him.
> 
> aka, BARFIGHT! (kinda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo! My apologies for taking so long to update. I have no excuse except to pitifully whine that writing is HARD. It's so hard, y'all. BUT! I've been agonizing over this stupid chapter long enough. If I don't let it go, I'll just keep fiddling with it. If it's rubbish, then it's rubbish, and I will have been outed for the fraud I am.
> 
> Many thanks to @barkingbard for his valuable input and to both him and @TimIDinMyHeart for being patient with all of my stupid questions.

Oliver begins to see Elio everywhere. In a coffee shop late one morning, Oliver at a small table in a corner with his espresso and the newspaper. Looks up at the sound of chimes and the door, watches Elio breeze in, order a cappuccino. Eyes sweep around the coffee shop as he waits for change, catches Oliver in his corner, Oliver looking at him, and as he accepts his change, asks “can you make that to-go?” Disappointment settling in his stomach, Oliver continues to watch Elio as the cappuccino machine hisses, as Elio looks everywhere but at Oliver, and soon, all too soon, he accepts his coffee with a nod and a thank you and is out the door, a non-encounter ending as it began, with chimes, fleeting as the breeze that slips past.

Oliver begins to see Elio everywhere, whether he’s there or not. On the street, his gaze is hooked and dragged by every head of dark curls, more than he’d ever noticed before. So many bearing the promise of Elio now that he knows he’s in this city, in his city. More than once he catches glimpses, or thinks he does, of Elio across a street, loping along in a way that is both quick yet somehow leisurely, only to lose sight of him as a bus passes, perhaps through a door, around a corner, perhaps swallowed by the pressing crowd.  
  


***

A few weeks after the initial encounter at the Met, at a popular gay club on Christopher Street, where the bouncer at the door takes in the entirety of Oliver in a smooth, approving glance, immediately waves him in, Oliver sees Elio talking to a broad, dark-haired man at the bar. He looks good. Sinfully good. Pinstripe pants, a white shirt, a black blazer. Curls falling in his face, in his eyes. That one curl he remembers so well, the one that falls over Elio’s right eye, the one Oliver’s curled around his finger countless times. Longer now, long enough to tickle Elio’s cheek. Then down to those pink lips, plush and pouty. The twinge Oliver feels when he remembers how confused he always was, the visceral way his body would respond whenever he heard Elio’s masculine voice come out of his perfect, pretty mouth. 

Oliver shakes his head, looks away. This is his first time at this particular club, and as he approaches the bar to order a drink, he wonders if this is a regular place for Elio. In light of their meeting and subsequent non-encounters, Oliver has made up his mind not to approach, stays out of his line of sight. He’s considering leaving when he sees their conversation has morphed into yelling. He can barely hear Elio’s voice over the music, but he can tell that his ranting is a melding of both English and Italian, and he can’t help a bit of a smirk at this feisty boy. Elio knocks the guy’s drink over, stands, tries to walk away, but the man grabs his wrist, pulls him back in. With both bartenders tied up with customers further down the bar, and sensing things are more ominous than he’d originally thought, Oliver moves along the bar, stands behind Elio, levels his gaze at the man holding him.

“You need to let him go.”

Elio’s head jerks around at the sound of Oliver’s voice. 

“Fuck off,” the man spits. “Mind your own business.” 

“Elio--”

“Go away, Oliver.” Elio’s voice is short, angry.

“Oliver?” the man asks. “Is this your boyfriend? Is that your problem?”

“Let go, asshole. He’s not my boyfriend.”

“If he’s not your boyfriend, then why are you blowing me off?” Jerks Elio’s arm again.

“Because I’m. Not. Interested.”

Tries to pull Elio flush to him. Elio’s oversized blazer shifts, slips off one shoulder, reveals the strap of a tank top and porcelain skin dotted with freckles. The man tries to nuzzle that exquisite shoulder. “You will be once you see what I have for you.” 

Oliver has seen and heard enough. The man holding Elio is about the same height as Elio, but he’s more muscular, filled out. Oliver, however, also broad and strong with the added advantage of several inches over the other two and undaunted by this other man, steps around Elio, and in a quick movement, grabs the man by the throat, squeezes. The man releases Elio, and both his hands fly to his neck to pry at Oliver’s hand, soon both Oliver’s hands.

“Oliver, what the fuck.”

Oliver doesn’t respond, just increases the pressure on the man’s neck as he frantically tries to remove himself from Oliver’s grasp. People around them take notice, start to back away. There’s a press of movement at the periphery of the crowd, but Oliver’s attention is fixated on this one man.

“Oliver,” Elio’s hand is on his arm, his voice measured. “Let him go.”

Oliver holds his grip for a moment longer, then releases the man, says “don’t ever touch him again.” Watches the man catch his breath, glare at both Oliver and Elio, expects him to stumble away. Instead he swings at Oliver, who dodges, grabs the man’s wrist as it breezes his face, and with his left hand, grabs the back of the man’s head, and slams his face into the bar. The man crumples to the floor. 

“Jesus, Oliver.’ Elio startles backwards, eyes like moons in his face.

The people around them step back, seemingly pushed out by the tide of their collective “Ooow!” Chattering and pointing, their ranks are disrupted by bouncers who push their way through. One particularly large bouncer, nearly as tall as Oliver but much larger with a goatee, long beach waves, and a scar above his eye, grabs Oliver’s arm, twists it behind his back, while two more pick up the unconscious man. The one is shouting at Oliver as he begins to lead him away. Oliver throws one more glance over his shoulder, sees Elio’s moment of exasperated indecision, his hands on his hips and his head thrown back. Oliver is jerked back around, and they’re halfway to the door when Elio appears in front of them, points at Oliver. The bouncer, stops, leans in towards Elio who says “he’s with me, Jay.” 

The bouncer pulls back, looks at him. “With you? You vouch for him?”

Nodding. “I do. He’s okay.” Points towards where the other bouncers are carrying the unconscious man out the door. “That guy was the problem.” Back to Oliver. “Not him.”

Releases Oliver’s arm, who pulls it around, hugs it to himself, massages his wrist where the bouncer’s grip was like iron.

“You keep an eye on him,” the bouncer tells Elio, pats him on the shoulder. Elio nods once. Looks up at Oliver after the bouncer has left, rubs his face, looks like he wants to yell. Walks away, instead, takes a seat at the bar. Oliver follows. The bartender stops in front of Elio, seems to be checking in on him because Elio is nodding.

Oliver reaches Elio, leans in, asks “are you okay?”

Elio clenches his jaw, sucks his lips into his mouth, then presses them together. “I’m okay.” The bartender sets a beer in front of Elio, who accepts it with a nod. 

Oliver is still looking at him with concern.

Elio takes a couple deep gulps of his beer. Oliver watches his adam’s apple bob with each swallow. Elio wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m fine, Oliver. How is your arm?”

Oliver rubs his wrist. “I’m fine. Thank you for that.”

“I didn’t know you could fight.”

“I don’t normally have to,” Oliver admits. “But when you play poker…” Shrugs. “Sometimes it can get ugly.”

Elio laughs, despite himself. Nods. “Yeah. Okay. Thank you. You didn’t have to do that,” a nod towards the place on the bar where Oliver smashed the man’s face, “but thank you.”

Oliver nods. “What happened?”

“What? Nothing. He wanted me to go with him, and I didn’t.” Elio shrugs. “That’s it.”

“Does that happen...often?”

“No. Not often, but it does happen.”

“It doesn’t happen often because you...normally go?”

Elio shakes his head, and his laugh is bitter. “You don’t get to ask that question.”

“Elio--”

“No, Oliver.” Elio’s face is all defiance as he stares up at Oliver. “What the fuck are you doing here, anyway? Are you following me?”

“OLIVER.” A loud voice from behind Oliver, a hand on his shoulder. Elio looks in that direction, and Oliver turns to see his colleague, Michael standing behind him. “Fancy meeting you here.” Gestures over his shoulder. “Did you see what happened to that guy? Someone did a number on him.”

“Hey, Michael.” Oliver gives him a brief nod, offers his hand, and they shake.

“Hey, can I buy you a drink?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no. I’m okay. Having a good night?”

Elio’s working on his drink, casting sideways glances at them.

“Not bad. Not bad,” Michael says. Then leans in, “hey, since I’ve got you here off-campus. I was wondering if you’d like to go out sometime. Together.”

Oliver’s shaking his head. “Michael--”

Michael gestures broadly, as if to say look at where we are. “I mean, it’s clear you’re finally interested in moving on.” 

“Michael, I should introduce you.” Oliver reaches to put his arm around Elio, who freezes. “This is my boyfriend, Elio.”

Elio chokes on his drink, recovers. “I’m not your fucking boyfriend.” Michael raises his eyebrows at Oliver.

“We’ve been arguing,” Oliver shrugs. Elio snorts.

Michael’s hands go up in surrender. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to interrupt the happy couple.”

Elio laughs.

“Nice to meet you, Elio.”

Elio nods. “You work with Oliver?”

“I do.”

“What department?”

“I teach medieval literature. What about you?”

“Studying composition at Julliard.”

Quick glance at Oliver, back to Elio. “So you’re a student.”

“Doctoral candidate.”

“Doctoral candidate?” Michael looks surprised. “How old are you?”

“Old enough,” Elio smiles and winks. Oliver rolls his eyes. “Medieval literature. My mother has a translation of the Heptameron.”

“Which translation does she have?”

Elio squints at Michael for just a second before laughing. “Well, technically, she has all of them, I think. But I’m talking about the translation she published. My mother is Annella Perlman.”

Michael draws back in surprise. “Annella Perlman is your mother?” Shocked look at Oliver, who nods. Back to Elio. “Her translation is magnificent. I have two copies. One at home and one in my office on campus.”

Elio, nodding. “I’ll tell her you said that. Thank you. What do you think of Cantor’s forthcoming book?”

“You read Cantor?”

“Of course. Do you know him? Have you seen it?”

“I do know him professionally, of course. NYU is practically up the street. But I’ve not seen any of the manuscript. Have you seen it?”

Elio nods as he takes a sip of his beer. “I have. I definitely have issues with some of his assertions, and he seems to lack a certain level of self-awareness, but,” Elio shrugs. “His overall premise is sound. Our understanding of the middle ages is largely a fantasy.”

“Cantor’s been notoriously secretive about this book. How did you manage to get your hands on it?”

“My mother is translating it into Italian.”

“Amazing,” Michael shakes his head. “What a small world we live in.”

Oliver’s eyes are darting back and forth as if he’s watching a tennis match.

“Small world, indeed.” Elio holds up his drink in a toast, and Michael taps it with his. They both drink, looking at each other over the rims of their glasses. Oliver watches the entire exchange with growing annoyance. 

“Oliver,” Michael is smiling, clearly enchanted. “Where have you been hiding this one?” 

Oliver forces a laugh, shakes his head. “You must bring him to the faculty recognition party.” Back to Elio, “I hope you can make it.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Elio looks at Oliver. “I’ll probably be busy.”

“We haven’t talked about it,” Oliver says. 

Michael rolls his eyes, points at Oliver. “You’re expected to be there.” Gestures towards Elio. “And you should bring Elio. So everyone knows you’re *ahem* alive and well.” Oliver’s arm tightens around Elio’s waist, hand gripping his side. He’s shaking his head, but Michael doesn’t relent. “And so everyone can meet Elio. He doesn’t deserve to be kept hidden away.” 

Holds his hand out to Elio. “It was lovely to meet you.”

Elio takes his hand and shakes it. “Likewise.”

“I hope to see you again soon.”

Elio gives Michael a coy, open-mouthed smile. “Maybe you will.”

Michael smiles back. Says “I’ll leave you to it, then. Oliver.” He shakes Oliver’s hand before he moves away from the bar and grooves into the mass of dancers.

Oliver watches Michael until he’s out of sight. When he turns to look at Elio, they ask in unison, “what was that about?”

“What?” Elio asks.

“What was what about?” Oliver realizes too late that Elio is scowling, murderous.

“He’s been on the verge of asking me out for weeks, no months.” Oliver shakes his head. “I thought I might put him off for awhile.” Looks in the direction Michael disappeared, then back to Elio. “But I might have just created a different problem altogether.” Pulls his hand from Elio’s waist, stands to face him. “Why were you flirting with him?” His tone is tinged with hurt.

Elio is still scowling, but now he also looks confused. “Are you JEALOUS? I’m a single, bisexual man, Oliver. I’m allowed to flirt with other single men. The better question is why is he asking you out?”

“I assume because he’s attracted to me.”

“Since when are you an available, out gay man, Oliver?” Elio asks pointedly. Looks around, gestures widely with his arms. “Why are you in a gay bar? Where is your wife?”

Now it’s Oliver’s turn to look confused. “I...I thought you knew.”

“Knew what? I know nothing, Oliver.”

Oliver winces at that phrase, but Elio continues.

“Last I knew, you were married.”

“We haven’t been together for awhile. We split up two years ago.”

“Split up.” Elio repeats, and Oliver nods. “Are you still married?”

“Oh, no,” Oliver shaking his head. “Our divorce was finalized in January.”

“Finalized in January,” Elio repeats, holds Oliver’s gaze. Oliver is nodding.

“I did not know this.”

The weight of this revelation finally hits Oliver. That Elio didn’t know. Elio didn’t know. Why didn’t Elio know? “Elio,” Oliver starts to panic as Elio stands from his stool. “I thought your father would have told you.”

“Well, he didn’t.” Starts to walk away.

Oliver grabs his arm. “Please, don’t go.”

Elio tries to wrench himself out of Oliver’s grasp but can’t. Sighs. “Are we going to do this again?”

“Stop. Please.” Out of ideas, says, “At least say you’ll go to that party with me.”

“What?”

“The faculty recognition party.”

Elio’s laugh is incredulous. “You’re seriously asking me this?”

Oliver nods. “Yes. It would help me out a lot.”

“Why should I help you?” Elio spits, wrenches his arm away again, this time successfully. “Why would you think that I ever would?”

“Because I need your help,” is all Oliver can come up with. Knows he’s grasping at straws but desperately wants a reason to see Elio again.

Elio shakes his head, looks everywhere but at Oliver.

“I need you.”

He looks up at Oliver then, and they stare at each other for a long moment. “You need me?”

Oliver nods.

“Tell me.”

“I need you,” Oliver says in a rush. “I need you, Elio.”

Elio shakes his head. “Not good enough,” he says. “Beg me.”

“What?”

With a foot on the barstool’s footrest, Elio lifts himself so that he is looking down at Oliver. “Beg me to be your boyfriend.” He holds Oliver’s gaze, and for several seconds, Oliver can’t find his voice.

Finally, “please, Elio.” Swallow. “Please be my boyfriend.”

Elio stares down at Oliver, stony, impassive, until the slightest twitch of his mouth. Then he hops off the stool. Walks away. Disappears into the crowd.

***

Oliver sees Elio when he’s staring at nothing at all. A wall, a blank page, the blur of passing scenery outside the windows of a cab or the train. He sees his Elio from that summer, his laughing, playful boy. Can feel his body against his, his futile fighting against Oliver’s size and strength as they wrestle each other and the overwhelming tension between them. Loves that Elio puts up a fight but lives for those moments where he gives in, where his body goes pliant, where his panting shifts from exertion to arousal, and his limbs relax from barrier to invitation. In those moments, all playfulness gone, Oliver’s need to conquer, to claim, asserts itself with a rapidly hardening cock and a growl against Elio’s neck. Elio’s head tilts to allow Oliver to devour that delicious neck, his legs wrap around Oliver’s waist, pulling him in. His gasps as Oliver grinds his hips down, rubbing their cocks together. His desperate moans that it’s so good, so good, but not enough, and soon Oliver is wrenching their shorts down and pushing in, the head of his cock popping past that pucker where Elio has learned that to let Oliver in, he has to push against him, and _fuck_. Oliver captures Elio’s cries in a kiss that demands everything, and Elio gives it. He gives it all. Every time. He gives all of himself to Oliver and takes all of Oliver into himself because the pain is worth it in the end.

Oliver sees Elio even in his dreams.

  
  


Oliver visits that same club several times over the next week. Leans against the bar, watches the mating rituals of oversexed gay men play out on the dance floor. Rebuffs advances of other men, all types of men, from petite fems to giant, furry bears. Tall and golden, like a lighthouse, Oliver attracts them all.

Oliver had considered calling Professor Perlman to ask for a way to contact Elio, either a number or an address. But he’d decided that would be inappropriate, invasive. Pro had decided not to tell Elio about Oliver’s divorce. There must have been a reason. No, he needed to handle this himself and not involve Elio’s parents.

Finally, Oliver’s persistence is rewarded in the form of a slip of paper, slid across the bar by a burly bartender. At first, Oliver pushes it away, he’s not interested. Then the bartender leans forward, says “Oliver, right?” Oliver looks surprised but nods. “Take it.” Slides the paper back. “Elio won’t come in here if you’re here,” he explains. “He says if you want to talk to him, call that number.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this was enough to pique your interest.
> 
> While there is debate as to whether or not this is actually Timmy, this is the image that inspired this first scene. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! *hugs*


End file.
